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POEMS  AND 
TRANSLATIONS 


By  J.  M?  SYNGE 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  & COMPANY 
BOSTON  ::::::  1911 


Copyright  1910 

By  Edward  Synge  and  Francis  Edmund  Stephens 


1 ^ n a- 


Ln 


CONTENTS 


POEMS 

PREFACE  -p.  3 

QUEENS  S 

IN  KERRY  6 

A WISH  7 

THE  ’mERGENCY  MAN  8 

DANNY  9 

PATCH-SHANEEN  1 1 

ON  AN  ISLAND  12 

BEG-INNISH  13 

EPITAPH  14 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHEE  1 5 

ON  AN  ANNIVERSARY  1 6 

THE  OAKS  OF  GLENCREE  1 7 

A QUESTION  18 

DREAD  19 

IN  GLENCULLEN  20 

I’VE  THIRTY  MONTHS  21 

EPITAPH  22 

PRELUDE  23 


CONTENTS 


IN  MAY  p.  24 

ON  A BIRTHDAY  25 

WINTER  26 

THE  CURSE  27 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETRARCH 
SONNETS  FROM  “LAURA  IN  DEATFI” 

LAURA  BEING  DEAD,  PETRARCH  FINDS 
TROUBLE  IN  ALL  THE  THINGS  OF 
THE  EARTH  3 I 

HE  ASKS  HIS  HEART  TO  RAISE  ITSELF 

UP  TO  GOD  32 

HE  WISHES  HE  MIGHT  DIE  AND  FOLLOW 

LAURA  33 

LAURA  IS  EVER  PRESENT  TO  HIM  34 

HE  CEASES  TO  SPEAK  OF  PIER  GRACES 
AND  HER  VIRTUES  WHICH  ARE  NO 
MORE  3 5 

HE  IS  JEALOUS  OF  THE  HEAVENS  AND 

THE  EARTH  36 

THE  FINE  TIME  OF  THE  YEAR  IN- 
CREASES Petrarch’s  sorrow  37 


CONTENTS 


HE  UNDERSTANDS  THE  GREAT  CRUELTY 

OF  DEATH  p.  38 

THE  SIGHT  OF  LAURa’s  HOUSE  REMINDS 
HIM  OF  THE  GREAT  HAPPINESS  HE 
HAS  LOST  39 

HE  SENDS  HIS  RHYMES  TO  THE  TOMB 
OF  LAURA  TO  PRAY  HER  TO  CALL 
HIM  TO  HER  40 

ONLY  HE  WHO  MOURNS  HER,  AND 
HEAVEN  THAT  POSSESSES  HER,  KNEW 
HER  WHILE  SHE  LIVED  4I 

LAURA  WAITS  FOR  HIM  IN  HEAVEN  42 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VILLON 
AND  OTHERS 

PRAYER  OF  THE  OLD  WOMAN,  VILLOn’s 

MOTHER  45 

AN  OLD  woman’s  LAMENTATIONS  46 

COLIN  MUSSET,  AN  OLD  POET,  COM- 
PLAINS TO  HIS  PATRON  48 

WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE  49 

50 


LEOPARDI  SILVA 


POEMS 


PREFACE 


I HAVE  often  thought  that  at  the  side  of  the 
poetic  diction,  which  everyone  condemns, 
modern  verse  contains  a great  deal  of  poetic 
material,  using  poetic  in  the  same  special 
sense.  The  poetry  of  exaltation  will  be  always 
the  highest;  but  when  men  lose  their  poetic 
feeling  for  ordinary  life,  and  cannot  write 
poetry  of  ordinary  things,  their  exalted  poetry 
is  likely  to  lose  its  strength  of  exaltation,  in 
the  way  men  cease  to  build  beautiful  churches 
when  they  have  lost  happiness  in  building 
shops. 

Many  of  the  older  poets,  such  as  Villon  and 
Herrick  and  Burns,  used  the  whole  of  their 
personal  life  as  their  material,  and  the  verse 
written  in  this  way  was  read  by  strong  men, 
and  thieves,  and  deacons,  not  by  little  cliques 
only.  Then,  in  the  town  writing  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  ordinary  life  was  put  into  verse 
that  was  not  poetry,  and  when  poetry  came 
back  with  Coleridge  and  Shelly,  it  went  into 
verse  that  was  not  always  human. 

In  these  days  poetry  is  usually  a flower  of 
evil  or  good  ; but  it  is  the  timber  of  poetry  that 
wears  most  surely,  and  there  is  no  timber  that 
has  not  strong  roots  among  the  clay  and 
worms. 


3 


Even  if  we  grant  that  exalted  poetry  can  be 
kept  successful  by  itself,  the  strong  things  of 
life  are  needed  in  poetry  also,  to  show  that 
what  is  exalted  and  tender  is  not  made  by 
feeble  blood.  It  may  almost  be  said  that  be- 
fore verse  can  be  human  again  it  must  learn 
to  be  brutal. 

The  poems  which  follow  were  written  at 
different  times  during  the  last  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen years,  most  of  them  before  the  views  just 
stated,  with  which  they  have  little  to  do,  had 
come  into  my  head. 

The  translations  are  sometimes  free,  and 
sometimes  almost  literal,  according  as  seemed 
most  fitting  with  the  form  of  language  I have 
used. 

J.  M.  S. 


Glenageary,  December,  1908. 


4 


QUEENS 


Seven  dog-days  we  let  pass, 

Naming  Queens  in  Glenmacnass, 

All  the  rare  and  royal  names 
Wormy  sheepskin  yet  retains: 

Etain,  Helen,  Maeve,  and  Fand, 

Golden  Deirdre’s  tender  hand; 

Bert,  the  big-foot,  sung  by  Villon, 
Cassandra,  Ronsard  found  in  Lyon. 

Queen  of  Sheba,  Meath  and  Connaught, 
Coifed  with  crown,  or  gaudy  bonnet; 
Queen  whose  finger  once  did  stir  men, 
Queens  were  eaten  of  fleas  and  vermin. 
Queens  men  drew  like  Monna  Lisa, 

Or  slew  with  drugs  in  Rome  and  Pisa. 

We  named  Lucrezia  Crivelli, 

And  Titian’s  lady  with  amber  belly. 
Queens  acquainted  in  learned  sin, 

Jane  of  Jewry’s  slender  shin : 

Queens  who  cut  the  bogs  of  Glanna, 

Judith  of  Scripture,  and  Gloriana, 

Queens  who  wasted  the  East  by  proxy, 

Or  drove  the  ass-cart,  a tinker’s  doxy. 

Yet  these  are  rotten — ask  their  pardon — 
And  we’ve  the  sun  on  rock  and  garden; 
These  are  rotten,  so  you’re  the  Queen 
Of  all  are  living,  or  have  been. 


5 


IN  KEREY 


We  heard  the  thrushes  by  the  shore  and 
sea. 

And  saw  the  golden  stars’  nativity, 

Then  round  we  went  the  lane  by  Thomas 
Flynn, 

Across  the  church  where  bones  lie  out 
and  in; 

And  there  I asked  beneath  a lonely  cloud 

Of  strange  delight,  with  one  bird  singing 
loud, 

What  change  you’d  wrought  in  graveyard, 
rock  and  sea. 

This  new  wild  paradise  to  wake  for 

me  ...  . 

Yet  knew  no  more  than  knew  those  merry 
sins 

Had  built  this  stack  of  thigh-bones,  jaws 
and  shins. 


6 


A WISH 


May  seven  tears  in  every  week 
Touch  the  hollow  of  your  cheek, 
That  I — signed  with  such  a dew  — 
For  a lion’s  share  may  sue 
Of  the  roses  ever  curled 
Round  the  May-pole  of  the  world. 

Heavy  riddles  lie  in  this, 

Sorrow’s  sauce  for  every  kiss. 


7 


THE  ’MERGENCY  MAN 


He  was  lodging  above  in  Coom, 

And  he’d  the  half  of  the  bailiff’s  room. 

Till  a black  night  came  in  Coomasaharn 
A night  of  rains  you’d  swamp  a star  in. 

“ To-night,”  says  he,  “with  the  devil’s 
weather 

The  hares  itself  will  quit  the  heather. 

I’ll  catch  my  boys  with  a latch  on  the  door. 
And  serve  my  process  on  near  a score.” 

The  night  was  black  at  the  fording  place. 
And  the  flood  was  up  in  a whitened  race. 
But  devil  a bit  he’d  turn  his  face. 

Then  the  peelers  said,  “ Now  mind  your 
lepping. 

How  can  you  see  the  stones  for  stepping? 

“ We’ll  wash  our  hands  of  your  bloody 
job.” 

“Wash  and  welcome,”  says  he,  “begob.” 

He  made  two  leps  with  a run  and  dash. 
Then  the  peelers  heard  a yell  and  splash; 

And  the  ’mergency  man  in  two  days  and 
a bit 

Was  found  in  the  ebb  tide  stuck  in  a net. 


8 


DANNY 


One  night  a score  of  Erris  men, 

A score  I’m  told  and  nine, 

Said,  “ We’ll  get  shut  of  Danny’s  noise 
Of  girls  and  widows  dyin’. 

“There’s  not  his  like  from  Binghamstown 
To  Boyle  and  Ballycroy, 

At  playing  hell  on  decent  girls. 

At  beating  man  and  boy. 

“ He’s  left  two  pairs  of  female  twins 
Beyond  in  Killacreest, 

And  twice  in  Crossmolina  fair 
He’s  struck  the  parish  priest. 

“ But  we’ll  come  round  him  in  the  night 
A mile  beyond  the  Mullet; 

Ten  will  quench  his  bloody  eyes. 

And  ten  will  choke  his  gullet.” 

It  wasn’t  long  till  Danny  came. 

From  Bangor  making  way, 

And  he  was  damning  moon  and  stars 
And  whistling  grand  and  gay. 

Till  in  a gap  of  hazel  glen  — 

And  not  a hare  in  sight  — 

Out  lepped  the  nine-and-twenty  lads 
Along  his  left  and  right. 


9 


Then  Danny  smashed  the  nose  on  Byrne, 
He  split  the  lips  on  three, 

And  bit  across  the  right  hand  thumb 
On  one  Red  Shawn  Magee. 

But  seven  tripped  him  up  behind. 

And  seven  kicked  before. 

And  seven  squeezed  around  his  throat 
Till  Danny  kicked  no  more. 

Then  some  destroyed  him  with  their  heels. 
Some  tramped  him  in  the  mud. 

Some  stole  his  purse  and  timber  pipe. 
And  some  washed  off  the  blood. 


And  when  you’re  walking  out  the  way 
From  Bangor  to  Belmulet, 

You’ll  see  a flat  cross  on  a stone 
Where  men  choked  Danny’s  gullet. 


10 


PATCH-SHANEEN 


Shaneen  and  Maurya  Prendergast 
Lived  west  in  Carnareagh, 

And  they’d  a cur-dog,  cabbage  plot, 

A goat,  and  cock  of  hay. 

He  was  five  foot  one  or  two. 

Herself  was  four  foot  ten. 

And  he  went  travelling  asking  meal 
Above  through  Caragh  Glen. 

She’d  pick  her  bag  of  carrageen 
Or  perries  through  the  surf. 

Or  loan  an  ass  of  Foxy  Jim 
To  fetch  her  creel  of  turf. 

Till  on  one  windy  Samhain  night. 

When  there’s  stir  among  the  dead. 

He  found  her  perished  stiff  and  stark. 
Beside  him  in  the  bed. 

And  now  when  Shaneen  travels  far 
From  Droum  to  Ballyhyre 
The  women  lay  him  sacks  of  straw. 
Beside  the  seed  of  fire. 

And  when  the  gray  cocks  crow  and  flap, 
And  winds  are  in  the  sky, 

“ Oh,  Maurya,  Maurya,  are  you  dead  ? ” 
You’ll  hear  Patch-Shaneen  cry. 


11 


ON  AN  ISLAND 


You’ve  plucked  a curlew,  drawn  a hen. 
Washed  the  shirts  of  seven  men. 

You’ve  stuffed  my  pillow,  stretched  the 
sheet. 

And  filled  the  pan  to  wash  your  feet, 

You’ve  cooped  the  pullets,  wound  the  clock. 
And  rinsed  the  young  men’s  drinking 
crock ; 

And  now  we’ll  dance  to  jigs  and  reels. 

Nailed  boots  chasing  girls’  naked  heels. 
Until  your  father’ll  start  to  snore. 

And  Jude,  now  you’re  married,  will  stretch 
on  the  floor. 


12 


BEG-INNISH 


Bring  Kateen-beug  and  Maurya  Jude 
To  dance  in  Beg-Innish, 

And  when  the  lads  (they’re  in  Dunquin) 
Have  sold  their  crabs  and  fish, 

Wave  fawny  shawls  and  call  them  in, 

And  call  the  little  girls  who  spin. 

And  seven  weavers  from  Dunquin, 

To  dance  in  Beg-Innish. 

I’ll  play  you  jigs,  and  Maurice  Kean, 

Where  nets  are  laid  to  dry. 

I’ve  silken  strings  would  draw  a dance 
From  girls  are  lame  or  shy; 

Four  strings  I’ve  brought  from  Spain  and 
France 

To  make  your  long  men  skip  and  prance. 
Till  stars  look  out  to  see  the  dance 
Where  nets  are  laid  to  dry. 

We’ll  have  no  priest  or  peeler  in 
To  dance  in  Beg-Innish; 

But  we’ll  have  drink  from  M’riarty  Jim 
Eowed  round  while  gannets  fish, 

A keg  with  porter  to  the  brim. 

That  every  lad  may  have  his  whim. 

Till  we  up  sails  with  M’riarty  Jim 
And  sail  from  Beg-Innish. 


13 


EPITAPH 


After  reading  Ronsard’s  lines  from 
Rabelais 

If  fruits  are  fed  on  any  beast 
Let  vine-roots  suck  this  parish  priest, 
For  while  he  lived,  no  summer  sun 
Went  up  but  he’d  a bottle  done. 

And  in  the  starlight  beer  and  stout 
Kept  his  waistcoat  bulging  out. 

Then  Death  that  changes  happy  things 
Damned  his  soul  to  water  springs. 


14 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHEE 


After  looking  at  one  of  A,  E.’s  pictures 

Adieu,  sweet  Angus,  Meave,  and  Fand, 
Ye  plumed  yet  skinny  Shee, 

That  poets  played  with  hand  in  hand 
To  learn  their  ecstasy. 

We’ll  stretch  in  Red  Dan  Sally’s  ditch. 
And  drink  in  Tubber  fair. 

Or  poach  with  Red  Dan  Philly’s  bitch 
The  badger  and  the  hare. 


15 


ON  AN  ANNIVEKSARY 


/. 


After  reading  the  dates  in  a book  of  Lyrics 

With  Fifteen-ninety  or  Sixteen-sixteen 

We  end  Cervantes,  Marot,  Nashe  or  Green: 

Then  Sixteen-thirteen  till  two  score  and 
nine. 

Is  Crashaw’s  niche,  that  honey-lipped 
divine. 

And  so  when  all  my  little  work  is  done 

They’ll  say  I came  in  Eighteen-seventy-one, 

And  died  in  Dublin.  . . . What  year  will 
they  write 

For  my  poor  passage  to  the  stall  of  night? 


16 


TO  THE  OAKS  OF  GLENCREE 

My  arms  are  around  you,  and  I lean 
Against  you,  while  the  lark 
Sings  over  us,  and  golden  lights,  and  green 
Shadows  are  on  your  bark. 

There’U  come  a season  when  you’ll  stretch 
Black  boards  to  cover  me : 

Then  in  Mount  Jerome  I will  lie,  poor 
wretch. 

With  worms  eternally. 


17 


A QUESTION 


I asked  if  I got  sick  and  died,  would  you 
With  my  black  funeral  go  walking  too, 

If  you’d  stand  close  to  hear  them  talk  or 
pray 

While  I’m  let  down  in  that  steep  bank  of 
clay. 

And,  No,  you  said,  for  if  you  saw  a crew 
Of  living  idiots  pressing  round  that  new 
Oak  coffin  — they  alive,  I dead  beneath 
That  board  — you’d  rave  and  rend  them 
with  your  teeth. 


18 


DREAD 


Beside  a chapel  I’d  a room  looked  down, 

Where  all  the  women  from  the  farms  and 
town, 

On  Holy-days  and  Sundays  used  to  pass. 

To  marriages,  and  christenings,  and  to 
Mass. 

Then  I sat  lonely  watching  sdPre  and  score, 

Till  I turned  jealous  of  the  Lord  next 
door 

Now  by  this  window,  where  there’s  none 
can  see. 

The  Lord  God’s  jealous  of  yourself  and  me. 


19 


IN  GLENCULLEN 


Thrush,  linnet,  stare  and  wren, 

Brown  lark  beside  the  sun. 

Take  thought  of  kestril,  sparrow-hawk, 
Birdlime  and  roving  gun. 

You  great-great-grand-children 
Of  birds  I’ve  listened  to, 

I think  I robbed  your  ancestors 
When  I was  young  as  you. 


20 


I’VE  THIRTY  MONTHS 


I’ve  thirty  months,  and  that’s  my  pride, 
Before  my  age’s  a double  score. 

Though  many  lively  men  have  died 
At  twenty-nine  or  little  more. 

I’ve  left  a long  and  famous  set 
Behind  some  seven  years  or  three. 

But  there  are  millions  I’d  forget 
Will  have  their  laugh  at  passing  me. 

25,  ix,  1908. 


21 


EPITAPH 


A silent  sinner,  nights  and  days, 

No  human  heart  to  him  drew  nigh. 
Alone  he  wound  his  wonted  ways, 

Alone  and  little  loved  did  die. 

And  autumn  Death  for  him  did  choose, 
A season  dank  with  mists  and  rain. 

And  took  him,  while  the  evening  dews 
Were  settling  o’er  the  fields  again. 


22 


PRELUDE 


Still  south  I went  and  west  and  south 
again, 

Through  Wicklow  from  the  morning  till 
the  night, 

And  far  from  cities,  and  the  sights  of  men, 
Lived  with  the  sunshine  and  the  moon’s 
delight. 

I knew  the  stars,  the  flowers,  and  the  birds. 
The  grey  and  wintry  sides  of  many  glens. 
And  did  but  half  remember  human  words. 
In  converse  with  the  mountains,  moors, 
and  fens. 


28 


IN  MAY 


In  a nook 

That  opened  south. 

You  and  I 

Lay  mouth  to  mouth. 

A snowy  gull 
And  sooty  daw 
Came  and  looked 
With  many  a caw; 

“ Such,”  I said, 

“Are  I and  you. 

When  you’ve  kissed  me 
Black  and  blue ! ” 


24 


ON  A BIRTHDAY 


Friend  of  Ronsard,  Nashe,  and  Beaumont, 
Lark  of  Ulster,  Meath,  and  Thomond, 
Heard  from  Smsrrna  and  Sahara 
To  the  surf  of  Connemara, 

Lark  of  April,  June,  and  May, 

Sing  loudly  this  my  Lady-day. 


25 


WINTER 


With  little  money  in  a great  city 

There’s  snow  in  every  street 
Where  I go  up  and  down, 

And  there’s  no  woman,  man,  or  dog 
That  knows  me  in  the  town. 

I know  each  shop,  and  all 
These  Jews  and  Russian  Poles, 

For  I go  walking  night  and  noon 
To  spare  my  sack  of  coals. 


26 


THE  CURSE 


To  a sister  of  an  enemy  of  the  author’s 
who  disapproved  of  “The  Playboy." 

Lord,  confound  this  surly  sister. 

Blight  her  brow  with  blotch  and  blister, 
Cramp  her  larynx,  lung,  and  liver. 

In  her  guts  a galling  give  her. 

Let  her  live  to  earn  her  dinners 
In  Mount  joy  with  seedy  sinners: 

Lord,  this  judgment  quickly  bring. 

And  I’m  your  servant,  J.  M.  Synge. 


27 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
PETRARCH 


SONNETS  FROM  “LAURA  IN 
DEATH  ” 

LAURA  BEING  DEAD,  PETRARCH 
FINDS  TROUBLE  IN  ALL  THE 
THINGS  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Life  is  flying  from  me,  not  stopping  an 
hour,  and  Death  is  making  great  strides  fol- 
lowing my  track.  The  days  about  me  and  the 
days  passed  over  me,  are  bringing  me  desola- 
tion, and  the  days  to  come  will  be  the  same 
surely. 

All  things  that  I am  bearing  in  mind,  and 
all  things  I am  in  dread  of,  are  keeping  me  in 
troubles,  in  this  way  one  time,  in  that  way  an- 
other time,  so  that  if  I wasn’t  taking  pity  on 
my  own  self  it’s  long  ago  I’d  have  given  up  my 
life. 

If  my  dark  heart  has  any  sweet  thing  it  is 
turned  away  from  me,  and  then  farther  off  I 
see  the  great  winds  where  I must  be  sailing. 
I see  my  good  luck  far  away  in  the  harbor, 
but  my  steersman  is  tired  out,  and  the  masts 
and  the  ropes  on  them  are  broken,  and  the 
beautiful  lights  where  I would  be  always  look- 
ing are  quenched. 


31 


HE  ASKS  HIS  HEART  TO  RAISE 
ITSELF  UP  TO  GOD. 


What  is  it  you’re  thinking,  lonesome  heart? 
For  what  is  it  you’re  turning  back  ever  and 
always  to  times  that  are  gone  away  from  you  ? 
For  what  is  it  you’re  throwing  sticks  on  the 
fire  when  it  is  your  own  self  that  is  burning? 

The  little  looks  and  sweet  words  you’ve 
taken  one  by  one  and  written  down  among 
your  songs,  are  gone  up  into  the  Heavens,  and 
it’s  late,  you  know  well,  to  go  seeking  them  on 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

Let  you  not  be  giving  new  life  every  day 
to  your  own  destruction,  and  following  a 
fool’s  thoughts  for  ever.  Let  you  seek  Heaven 
when  there  is  nothing  left  pleasing  on  the 
earth,  and  it  a poor  thing  if  a great  beauty,  the 
like  of  her,  would  be  destroying  your  peace 
and  she  living  or  dead. 


32 


HE  WISHES  HE  MIGHT  DIE  AND 
FOLLOW  LAURA. 


In  the  years  of  her  age  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  most  flowery — the  time  Love  has  his 
mastery — Laura,  who  was  my  life,  has  gone 
away  leaving  the  earth  stripped  and  desolate. 
She  has  gone  up  into  the  Heavens,  living  and 
beautiful  and  naked,  and  from  that  place  she 
is  keeping  her  Lordship  and  her  rein  upon  me, 
and  I crying  out : Ohone,  when  will  I see  that 
day  breaking  that  will  be  my  first  day  with 
herself  in  Paradise? 

My  thoughts  are  going  after  her,  and  it  is 
that  way  my  soul  would  follow  her,  lightly, 
and  airily,  and  happily,  and  I would  be  rid  of 
all  my  great  troubles.  But  what  is  delaying 
me  is  the  proper  thing  to  lose  me  utterly,  to 
make  me  a greater  weight  on  my  own  self. 

Oh,  what  a sweet  death  I might  have  died 
this  day  three  years  to-day! 


33 


LAURA  IS  EVER  PRESENT  TO  HIM. 


If  the  birds  are  making  lamentation,  or  the 
green  banks  are  moved  by  a little  wind  of 
summer,  or  you  can  hear  the  waters  making  a 
stir  by  the  shores  that  are  green  and  flowery. 

That’s  where  I do  be  stretched  out  thinking 
Heaven  shows  me  though  hidden  in  the  earth 
of  love,  writing  my  songs,  and  herself  that 
I set  my  eyes  on,  and  hear  the  way  that  she 
feels  my  sighs  and  makes  an  answer  to  me. 

“Alas,”  I hear  her  say,  “why  are  you  using 
yourself  up  before  the  time  is  come,  and  pour- 
ing out  a stream  of  tears  so  sad  and  doleful. 

“You’d  do  right  to  be  glad  rather,  for  in 
dying  I won  days  that  have  no  ending,  and 
when  you  saw  me  shutting  up  my  eyes  I was 
opening  them  on  the  light  that  is  eternal.” 


34 


HE  CEASES  TO  SPEAK  OF  HER 
GRACES  AND  HER  VIRTUES 
WHICH  ARE  NO  MORE. 

The  eyes  that  I would  be  talking  of  so 
warmly,  and  the  arms,  and  the  hands,  and  the 
feet,  and  the  face  that  are  after  calling  me 
away  from  myself,  and  making  me  a lonesome 
man  among  all  people. 

The  hair  that  was  of  shining  gold,  and 
brightness  of  the  smile  that  was  the  like  of  an 
angel’s  surely,  and  was  making  a paradise  of 
the  earth,  are  turned  to  a little  dust  that 
knows  nothing  at  all. 

And  yet  I myself  am  living;  it  is  for  this  I 
am  making  a complaint  to  be  left  without  the 
light  I had  such  a great  love  for,  in  good  for- 
tune and  bad,  and  this  will  be  the  end  of  my 
songs  of  love,  for  the  vein  where  I had  clever- 
ness is  dried  up,  and  everything  I have  is 
turned  to  complaint  only. 


35 


HE  IS  JEALOUS  OF  THE  HEAVENS 
AND  THE  EARTH. 


What  a grudge  I am  bearing  the  earth  that 
has  its  arms  about  her,  and  is  holding  that  face 
away  from  me,  where  I was  finding  peace 
from  great  sadness. 

What  a grudge  I am  bearing  the  Heavens 
that  are  after  taking  her,  and  shutting  her  in 
with  greediness,  the  Heavens  that  do  push 
their  bolt  against  so  many. 

What  a grudge  I am  bearing  the  blessed 
saints  that  have  got  her  sweet  company,  that 
I am  always  seeking;  and  what  a grudge  I 
am  bearing  against  Death,  that  is  standing  in 
her  two  eyes,  and  will  not  call  me  with  a word. 


36 


THE  FINE  TIME  OF  THE  YEAR 
INCREASES  PETRARCH’S  SORROW. 


The  south  wind  is  coming  back,  bringing  the 
fine  season,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  grass, 
her  sweet  family,  along  with  her.  The  swal- 
low and  the  nightingale  are  making  a stir, 
and  the  spring  is  turning  white  and  red  in 
every  place. 

There  is  a cheerful  look  on  the  meadows, 
and  peace  in  the  sky,  and  the  sun  is  well 
pleased,  I’m  thinking,  looking  downward,  and 
the  air  and  the  waters  and  the  earth  herself 
are  full  of  love,  and  every  beast  is  turning 
back  looking  for  its  mate. 

And  what  is  coming  to  me  is  great  sighing 
and  trouble,  which  herself  is  drawing  out  of 
my  deep  heart,  herself  that  has  taken  the  key 
of  it  up  to  Heaven. 

And  it  is  this  way  I am,  that  the  singing 
birds,  and  the  flowers  of  the  earth,  and  the 
sweet  ladies,  with  their  grace  and  comeliness, 
are  the  like  of  a desert  to  me,  and  wild  beasts 
astray  in  it. 


37 


HE  UNDERSTANDS  THE  GREAT 
CRUELTY  OF  DEATH. 


My  flowery  and  green  age  was  passing 
away,  and  I feeling  a chill  in  the  fires  had  been 
wasting  my  heart,  for  I was  drawing  near  the 
hillside  that  is  above  the  grave. 

Then  my  sweet  enemy  was  making  a start, 
little  by  little,  to  give  over  her  great  wariness, 
the  way  she  was  wringing  a sweet  thing  out 
of  my  sharp  sorrow.  The  time  was  coming 
when  Love  and  Decency  can  keep  company, 
and  lovers  may  sit  together  and  say  out  all 
things  are  in  their  hearts.  But  Death  had  his 
grudge  against  me,  and  he  got  up  in  the  way, 
like  an  armed  robber,  with  a pike  in  his  hand. 


38 


THE  SIGHT  OF  LAURA’S  HOUSE 
REMINDS  HIM  OF  THE  GREAT 
HAPPINESS  HE  HAS  LOST. 

Is  this  the  nest  in  which  my  Phoenix  put 
on  her  feathers  of  gold  and  purple,  my 
Phoenix  that  did  hold  me  under  her  wing,  and 
she  drawing  out  sweet  words  and  sighs  from 
me?  Oh,  root  of  my  sweet  misery,  where  is 
that  beautiful  face,  where  light  would  be  shin- 
ing out,  the  face  that  did  keep  my  heart  like 
a flame  burning?  She  was  without  a match 
upon  the  earth,  I hear  them  say,  and  now  she 
is  happy  in  the  Heavens. 

And  she  has  left  me  after  her  dejected  and 
lonesome,  turning  back  all  times  to  the  place 
I do  be  making  much  of  for  her  sake  only, 
and  I seeing  the  night  on  the  little  hills  where 
she  took  her  last  flight  up  into  the  Heavens, 
and  where  one  time  her  eyes  would  make  sun- 
shine and  it  night  itself. 


39 


HE  SENDS  HIS  RHYMES  TO  THE 
TOMB  OF  LAURA  TO  PRAY  HER 
TO  CALL  HIM  TO  HER. 

Let  you  go  down,  sorrowful  rhymes,  to  the 
hard  rock  is  covering  my  dear  treasure,  and 
then  let  you  call  out  till  herself  that  is  in  the 
Heavens  will  make  answer,  though  her  dead 
body  is  lying  in  a shady  place. 

Let  you  say  to  her  that  it  is  tired  out  I am 
with  being  alive,  with  steering  in  bad  seas,  but 
I am  going  after  step  by  step,  gathering  up 
what  she  let  fall  behind  her. 

It  is  of  her  only  I do  be  thinking,  and  she 
living  and  dead,  and  now  I have  made  her 
with  my  songs  so  that  the  whole  world  may 
know  her,  and  give  her  the  love  that  is  her  due. 

May  it  please  her  to  be  ready  for  my  own 
passage  that  is  getting  near;  may  she  be  there 
to  meet  me,  herself,  in  the  Heavens,  that  she 
may  call  me,  and  draw  me  after  her. 


40 


ONLY  HE  WHO  MOURNS  HER  AND 
HEAVEN  THAT  POSSESSES  HER 
KNEW  HER  WHILE  SHE  LIVED. 

Ah,  Death,  it  is  you  that  have  left  the  world 
cold  and  shady,  with  no  sun  over  it.  It’s  you 
have  left  Love  without  eyes  or  arms  to  him, 
you’ve  left  liveliness  stripped,  and  beauty 
without  a shape  to  her,  and  all  courtesy  in 
chains,  and  honesty  thrown  down  into  a hole. 
I am  making  lamentation  alone,  though  it 
isn’t  myself  only  has  a cause  to  be  crying  out ; 
since  you.  Death,  have  crushed  the  first  seed 
of  goodness  in  the  whole  world,  and  with  it 
gone  what  place  will  we  find  a second? 

The  air  and  the  earth  and  seas  would  have 
a good  right  to  be  crying  out — and  they  pity- 
ing the  race  of  men  that  is  left  without  her- 
self, like  a meadow  without  flowers  or  a ring 
robbed  of  jewellery. 

The  world  didn’t  know  her  the  time  she 
was  in  it,  but  I myself  knew  her — and  I left 
now  to  be  weeping  in  this  place;  and  the 
Heavens  knew  her,  the  Heavens  that  are  giv- 
ing an  ear  this  day  to  my  crying  out. 


41 


/ 


LAURA  WAITS  FOR  HIM  IN  HEAVEN. 

The  first  day  she  passed  up  and  down 
through  the  Heavens,  gentle  and  simple  were 
left  standing,  and  they  in  great  wonder,  saying 
one  to  the  other: 

“What  new  light  is  that  ? What  new  beauty 
at  all?  The  like  of  herself  hasn’t  risen  up 
these  long  years  from  the  common  world.” 

And  herself,  well  pleased  with  the  Heavens, 
was  going  forward,  matching  herself  with  the 
most  perfect  that  were  before  her,  yet  one 
time  and  another,  waiting  a little,  and  turning 
her  head  back  to  see  if  myself  was  coming 
after  her.  It’s  for  that  I’m  lifting  up  all  my 
thoughts  and  will  into  the  Heavens,  because  I 
do  hear  her  praying  that  I should  be  making 
haste  for  ever. 


42 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
VILLON  AND  OTHERS 


VILLON 


PRAYER  OF  THE  OLD  WOMAN, 
VILLON’S  MOTHER. 

Mother  of  God  that’s  Lady  of  the  Heavens, 
take  myself,  the  poor  sinner,  the  way  I’ll  be 
along  with  them  that’s  chosen. 

Let  you  say  to  your  own  Son  that  He’d 
have  a right  to  forgive  my  share  of  sins,  when 
it’s  the  like  He’s  done,  many’s  a day,  with  big 
and  famous  sinners.  I’m  a poor  aged  woman, 
was  never  at  school,  and  is  no  scholar  with 
letters,  but  I’ve  seen  pictures  in  the  chapel  with 
Paradise  on  one  side,  and  harps  and  pipes  in 
it,  and  the  place  on  the  other  side,  where  sin- 
ners do  be  boiled  in  torment ; the  one  gave  me 
great  joy,  the  other  a great  fright  and  scar- 
ing; let  me  have  the  good  place.  Mother  of 
God,  and  it’s  in  your  faith  I’ll  live  always. 

It’s  yourself  that  bore  Jesus,  that  has  no 
end  or  death,  and  He  the  Lord  Almighty,  that 
took  our  weakness  and  gave  Himself  to  sor- 
rows, a young  and  gentle  man.  It’s  Himself  is 
our  Lord,  surely,  and  it’s  in  that  faith  I’ll  live 
always. 


45 


VILLON 


AN  OLD  WOMAN’S  LAMENTATIONS. 

The  man  I had  a love  for — a great  rascal 
would  kick  me  in  the  gutter — is  dead  thirty 
years  and  over  it,  and  it  is  I am  left  behind, 
grey  and  aged.  When  I do  be  minding  the 
good  days  I had,  minding  what  I was  one 
time,  and  what  it  is  I’m  come  to,  and  when  I 
do  look  on  my  own  poor  self,  poor  and  dry, 
and  pinched  together,  it  wouldn’t  be  much 
would  set  me  raging  in  the  streets. 

Where  is  the  round  forehead  I had,  and 
the  fine  hair,  and  the  two  eyebrows,  and  the 
eyes  with  a big  gay  look  out  of  them  would 
bring  folly  from  a great  scholar?  Where  is 
my  straight,  shapely  nose,  and  two  ears,  and 
my  chin  with  a valley  in  it,  and  my  lips  were 
red  and  open? 

Where  are  the  pointed  shoulders  were  on 
me,  and  the  long  arms  and  nice  hands  to 
them?  Where  is  my  bosom  was  as  white  as 
any,  or  my  straight  rounded  sides? 

It’s  the  way  I am  this  day — my  forehead  is 
gone  away  into  furrows,  the  hair  of  my  head 
is  grey  and  whitish,  my  eyebrows  are  tumbled 
from  me,  and  my  two  eyes  have  died  out 
within  my  head — those  eyes  that  would  be 
laughing  to  the  men — my  nose  has  a hook  on 


46 


it,  my  ears  are  hanging  down,  and  my  lips 
are  sharp  and  skinny. 

That’s  what’s  left  over  from  the  beauty  of  a 
right  woman — a bag  of  bones,  and  legs  the 
like  of  two  shrivelled  sausages  going  beneath 
it. 

It’s  of  the  like  of  that  we  old  hags  do  be 
thinking,  of  the  good  times  are  gone  away 
from  us,  and  we  crouching  on  our  hunkers  by 
a little  fire  of  twigs,  soon  kindled  and  soon 
spent,  we  that  were  the  pick  of  many. 


47 


COLIN  MUSSET,  AN  OLD  POET, 
COMPLAINS  TO  HIS  PATRON. 


From  the  Old  French. 

I’m  getting  old  in  your  big  house,  and 
you’ve  never  stretched  your  hand  with  a bit 
of  gold  to  me,  or  a day’s  wages  itself.  By 
my  faith  in  Mary,  it’s  not  that  way  I’ll  serve 
you  always,  living  on  my  pocket,  with  a few 
coppers  only,  and  a small  weight  in  my  bag. 
You’ve  had  me  to  this  day,  singing  on  your 
stairs  before  you,  but  I’m  getting  a good  mind 
to  be  going  off,  when  I see  my  purse  flattened 
out,  and  my  wife  does  be  making  a fool  of  me 
from  the  edge  of  the  door. 

It’s  another  story  I hear  when  I come  home 
at  night  and  herself  looks  behind  me,  and  sets 
her  eye  on  my  bag  stuffed  to  bursting,  and  I 
maybe  with  a grey,  decent  coat  on  my  back. 
It’s  that  time  she’s  not  long  leaving  down  her 
spinning  and  coming  with  a smile,  ready  to 
choke  me  with  her  two  hands  squeezing  my 
neck.  It’s  then  my  sons  have  a great  rage  to 
be  rubbing  the  sweat  from  my  horse,  and  my 
daughter  isn’t  long  wringing  the  necks  on  a 
pair  of  chickens,  and  making  a stew  in  the  pot. 
It’s  that  day  my  youngest  will  bring  me  a 
towel,  and  she  with  nice  manners.  . . . It’s  a 
full  purse,  I tell  you,  makes  a man  lord  in  his 
own  house. 


45 


WALTER  VON  DER 
VOGELWEIDE 

I never  set  my  two  eyes  on  a head  was  so 
fine  as  your  head,  but  I’d  no  way  to  be  looking 
down  into  your  heart. 

It’s  for  that  I was  tricked  out  and  out — 
that  was  the  thanks  I got  for  being  so  steady 
in  my  love. 

I tell  you,  if  I could  have  laid  my  hands  on 
the  whole  set  of  the  stars,  the  moon  and  the 
sun  along  with  it,  by  Christ  I’d  have  given 
the  lot  to  her.  No  place  have  I set  eyes  on  the 
like  of  her;  she’s  bad  to  her  friends,  and  gay 
and  playful  with  those  she’d  have  a right  to 
hate.  I ask  you  can  that  behaviour  have  a 
good  end  come  to  it  ? 


49 


LEOPARDI 

SILVA. 

Are  you  bearing  in  mind  that  time  when 
there  was  a fine  look  out  of  your  eyes,  and 
yourself,  pleased  and  thoughtful,  were  going 
up  the  boundaries  that  are  set  to  childhood? 
That  time  the  quiet  rooms,  and  the  lanes 
about  the  house,  would  be  noisy  with  your 
songs  that  were  never  tired  out;  the  time  you^d 
be  sitting  down  with  some  work  that  is  right 
for  women,  and  well  pleased  with  the  hazy 
coming  times  you  were  looking  out  at  in  your 
own  mind. 

May  was  sweet  that  year,  and  it  was  pleas- 
antly youM  pass  that  day. 

Then  I’d  leave  my  pleasant  studies,  and 
the  paper  I had  smudged  with  ink  where  I 
would  be  spending  the  better  part  of  the  day, 
and  cock  my  ears  from  the  sill  of  my  father’s 
house,  till  I’d  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
or  of  your  loom  when  your  hands  moved 
quickly.  It’s  then  I would  set  store  of  the 
quiet  sky  and  the  lanes  and  little  places,  and 
the  sea  was  far  away  in  one  place  and  the  high 
hills  in  another. 

There  is  no  tongue  will  tell  till  the  judgment 
what  I feel  in  myself  those  times. 


50 


) 


f 


■T  ■ 


